


two is better than one

by naruhoe



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Bondage, Early Relationship, Gags, M/M, Oral, Roleplay, Toys, good dom sideswipe, hashtag spitroasted amiright, overload denial, rarepairs, sideswipe's dirty talk, sub sunstreaker, valveplug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-07
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-12-24 20:48:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12020718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naruhoe/pseuds/naruhoe
Summary: "Do you want it?" The mech by his helm suddenly asks, their spike slipping from his mouth, dragging a mixture of pre-fluid and oral lubricants across his lower lip and chin. Their spike is drooling pre-fluid. They're obviously aroused. Leaning in, they grip his jaw, thumb brushing gently against his bottom lip. "I know you want him to just fuck you into this table- take that pretty port of yours as you ripple around his spike, don't you, pretty boy?"1300 words of twins/wheeljack smut





	two is better than one

Panels popped, mouth forced open by a ring gag that makes his jaw ache delightfully, Sunstreaker's ports are plugged by two false spikes, the see-through sort that allows observance of every twitch of his valve. He's drooling all over the tabletop he's lying facedown atop when the first mechs arrive.

Immediately, they're prodding at the dildos stretching his valve and aft, sticking their fingers into his open mouth, playing with his glossa, but they quickly become impatient, and with the unmistakable 'click' of a retracting panel, one begins to feed their spike down his intake. They push in until his lips are wrapped fetchingly around the housing while the other mech pulls the dildo from his valve, plunging in without preparation. 

Between the two of them, the golden mech's frame slides back and forth atop the table, scratching his pristine paint. The mechs are relentless in chasing their pleasure and don't bother to work up a rhythm between them: The one sheathed in his intake grabs him by the helm fins and holds him, lips stretched around the base of his spike as they overload down Sunny's throat with a low grunt. They step away, but only after their spike has depressurized. This takes a while on account of the soft " _ah- ah- ah!_ " noises Sunstreaker makes every time the mech behind him thrusts back into his clenching valve. 

By the time the mech behind him overloads, pulling out to spill across the pristine finish of Sunny's aft, the frontliner is trembling, on the cusp of an overload which ebbs away as the mech trails the blunt, wet tip of his spike across the backs of his trembling thighs. 

Then, he's being flipped over, arms crushed behind him, fans screeching as they attempt to pull in cool air.  It's revealed that his spike hasn't been allowed to pressurize: it's locked away behind some clear cap, the inside of which protrudes a slim, slightly knobbly rod of the same transparent material. Though slightly blurry, it's clear that this rod slides into the transfluid slit of the mech's recessed spike. Suddenly, there are digits probing at the cap, pressing it inward and causing the golden mech to arch up with a choked cry. They do it again, and he very nearly overloads right that instant. A spike nudges at his cheek, the slick head sliding against his face, while at the same time, the other mech is still prodding at the sounding cap, their other hand playing with the false spike plugging his aft. They take their time, sliding it in and out, admiring the way his frame tries to suck the false spike back in. At last, they pull it out. Cold air rushes across his gaping port, and the mech hums appreciatively at the sight. 

Servos settling on his hips, the sticky head of the mech's spike kisses his port, and Sunstreaker can't help but shiver, a small noise escaping him. Slowly- far too slowly -they slide into his port, stimulating nodes as they slowly sink into the depths of his frame. The other mech finally directs their spike into his slack mouth, but this time, they remain within the cavern of his mouth, nudging against his glossa. Taking the hint, Sunstreaker tongues at the spike, laving it with his glossa; dipping into the transfluid slit. 

At last, the mech behind him picks up their pace, and he chokes on the spike in his intake, hips bucking as oft neglected nodes are stimulated again and again, and,  _Primus_ , he's so close to a damn overload that it _hurts_! 

"Do you want it?" The mech by his helm suddenly asks, their spike slipping from his mouth, dragging a mixture of pre-fluid and oral lubricants across his lower lip and chin. Their spike is drooling pre-fluid. They're obviously aroused. Leaning in, they grip his jaw, thumb brushing gently against his bottom lip. "I know you want him to just fuck you into this table- take that pretty port of yours as you ripple around his spike, don't you, pretty boy?" 

Sunstreaker chokes out a moan. His valve clenches emptily on nothing, the overload building- building- The mech leans in, ex-venting hotly against one of his helm fins. "Beg him for it."

As if on queue, the other mech's thrusts slow, and they come to a complete stop, sheathed entirely within the frontliner. Strong servos- strong, capable servos press down upon golden hips even as Sunstreaker bucks, almost sobbing, as for a second time, the overload fades away. There are digits stroking his helm, he belatedly notices, steady, familiar fingers. For a long moment, nobody moves. Sunstreaker's frame trembles. His glossa feels thick. He can still taste the mech's spill on his tongue. Then, the stroking digits are gone, working at the strap of the ring gag. Gently, they unhook it from around his helm, freeing his mouth from the metal bit. Sunstreaker works his jaw. The only sound is that of cooling fans.

The digits return to his jaw, tilting his head up to appraise cobalt optics. "What do you say, pet?" Sideswipe asks in an even tone. 

Sunstreaker breaks, then, indigo optics brightening to an almost white. "Please.." He entreats. Sideswipe shakes his helm, grip firm. "Try again, pet. Who are you asking?" Those fingers loosen their grip ever so slightly, tilting his helm down just enough to meet blazing blue optics. 

"Please, sir- please let me overload." 

Wheeljack's optics flick up, likely meeting Sideswipe's, and then they've locked back onto Sunstreaker's with newfound intensity, and the engineer is pulling back. The first snap of his hips is a bolt of molten pleasure, the second building upon that pleasure. Wheeljack drives into the golden mech with almost worshipful intent, optics never leaving those of the golden twin's even as they brighten and dim with charge. Sideswipe strokes his brother's helm, murmuring encouragement into his twin's audial, but the red twin's optics are locked onto Wheeljack as well, some emotion  _burning_ like a steady flame within them. He notices with a jolt of arousal that Sideswipe is fisting his own spike at a punishing pace. Wheeljack doesn't know if he's going to last- the charge has built to an almost unbearable level, but he still tries to hold out for the beautiful mech writhing beneath him.

Sideswipe's optics lock onto his own as the red twin leans in, whispering  _something_ into his twin's audial, and it's all over. Sunstreaker cries out, arching against Wheeljack as he clenches, wet, _hot_ heat around Wheeljack's spike, and with the image of both twin's optics burning itself into his processor, Wheeljack tips over the edge.

Sideswipe is patting his arm, repeating a phrase again and again, but he can't quite understand it through the pleasurable haze of satiation, the fulfillment that always follows a good session. "...over. Roll over, Sunny. Session's over. I'm gonna take the cuffs off, okay?" Finding he can once again understand words again, the yellow twin follows his brother's instructions, allowing Sideswipe to deactivate the stasis cuffs and pull them off of his wrists. Sunstreaker is finding it difficult to keep his eyes open, and judging by the dimness of the engineer's optics, so is Wheeljack. He catches a glimpse of himself, the scratches on his chassis, in the mirror hanging on the far wall, but Sideswipe is stepping in front of him again and saying something, and he really should concentrate, but Wheeljack is draped over his legs, lazily running a servo across his thigh again and again, and it feels  _good_. More than good. Maybe even _right_.

**Author's Note:**

> oh god i've never written BDSM before and i'm so sorry if i did something wrong please please please give me some feedback (esp comments!) i would appreciate it so much!


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